


our love was made for movie screens

by kimaracretak



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: (but with emotional sex first), Blood, F/F, F/M, Knifeplay, exactly as twisted as that list of pairings implies, mutually assured destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3248486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/pseuds/kimaracretak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(It’s one thing to stand very still and hold the razor blade in your mouth; it’s another entirely to seek it out to kiss, to devour. It’s so much better that way.): Spencer and Toby, and the lies and the Mona-shaped spaces between them</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Loving Toby is a declaration of independence._

It’s not that she doesn’t love him for who he is (she does – _I do, I do, I do,_ she whispers to herself at night, but it’s so long before she believes it) Toby is smart and safe and one more person to ground herself in when faced with the prospect of living up to the pretty little ideal doll-Spencer that her family has constructed. She doesn’t care to think overmuch about how he’s really only safe by Rosewood standards, which puts him about on the same level as a hand grenade. But claiming him in defiance of her family’s rules, of A’s ban on her happiness, is a rush of power unlike anything else she’s ever experienced. It’s one thing to stand very still and hold the razor blade in your mouth; it’s another entirely to seek it out to kiss, to devour. It’s so much _better_ that way.

 _Mine,_ she thinks, kissing him at the carnival as her mother looks on in horror; _mine_ , she thinks as they fold themselves around each other in the cab of Toby’s new truck; _mine_ , she thinks whenever he does something stupidly romantic and she’s torn between wanting to thank him by doing something equally sweet and wanting to thank him by taking him against the nearest surface just because _they could_. He’s in her veins, under her skin, and she loves every minute of this new world where she's just as in control as she wants to be. His mouth on her breasts is proof that being wrong is not the end of the world, his hand between her thighs proof that redemption is possible ( _for him, for me_ ).

It isn’t until A forces her to break up with him that she realises how much he’s come to mean to her. He had been just far removed enough from A that she had been able to delude herself into thinking that he could understand without being involved. She should have seen it coming, should have known after Alex, after seeing how jealous A was of Emily’s and Maya’s relationship, how much effort A put into breaking up Aria and Ezra. Pretending not to love him is a defeat, letting A threaten Toby away from her and dictate how she can love is a surrender and she hates herself for giving in as much as she hates A for making her.

Toby was all hers, one of the very few things in her life she didn’t have to compete with Melissa or Ali for, and for a long time, that was enough. They were better with each other: she was more grounded, he was less isolated. Until, of course, she found out that he was never hers at all, that the lies she thought they shared barely brushed the surface of the lies they lived out for each other every day.

She could have survived losing Toby, she thinks, maybe she could have even survived losing him to Mona. But she hasn’t just lost Toby, she’s lost faith in her own judgement, her own worldview. So Spencer crumbles, and Mona laughs, and Toby – Toby dies, and Spencer’s carefully constructed well-ordered universe where she knows all the rules dies, and she thinks she probably dies as well.

 

_Hating Mona is harder than she expected._

Mona is evil, of course – five feet two inches of psychotic evil all wrapped up in high fashion and tied in a bow of fierce intellect. That on its own is unsettling enough, even before you count the year of torment she inflicted on Spencer and her friends. It’s easy to hate the person who stalked them, and for a long time that was enough. But factor in the planning, the effortless way she fooled them all, and Spencer admires that. And, of course, she hates that admiration, hates it even more when she finds out how Mona had recruited Toby to do the same, and it all feeds back in on itself in an endless loop that leaves her strung out and exhausted and confused. When she finds Toby’s body in the woods, she is perversely grateful that Mona has decided to end this level of the game.

Mona visits her in Radley, of course. Mona 2.0 doesn’t hide her intelligence anymore, and that means never passing up an opportunity to gloat. Before, Spencer would have turned her away without thinking twice, but Mona isn’t the only one who’s changed. She offers Mona the only chair in her room, watching as the other girl traces the edges of the desk with something approaching nostalgia. “Funny,” she says by way of greeting. “I almost miss this, sometimes.”

Spencer just hums in response, gaze fixed firmly over Mona’s shoulder. Loath as she is to admit it, Mona has a point: Radley, for all its flaws in physical security, understands the need to dissociate, to tell stories to walls that won’t talk back and can’t judge. It’s peaceful – or it was, until Mona came back. She had liked not being Spencer Hastings, and Mona's a reminder that her little fantasy world can't last forever.

“Spence?” Spencer re-focuses on her. Mona’s smile is sweet, too sweet, and Spencer wonders idly how many knives she has hidden there. “I never fucked him, you know. If it makes you feel any better.”

 _No, of course you didn’t. You had him while he was with me, and that’s worse, so why bother?_ There’s no point in saying so, they both know it’s true. “Yeah, well, I think it’s a little late to bother with that sort of minutia, Mona. Get to the point.”

“The point is,” Mona pauses, sways closer, digs sharp red nails into Spencer’s cheek. Spencer doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe even though she’s sure Mona’s nails are pressing hard enough into her skin to draw blood. The air hangs heavy between them, laced with the same unidentifiable energy that could have set the room in Lewisburg alight right before she ended up straddling Mona on the floor, the smaller girl’s throat crushed under her hands. The world is about to shift. _Again_. “The point is I believe in second chances for all of us. Even I didn’t get everything perfect the first time around.”

Spencer’s eyes widen as she considers the full implication of Mona’s words. She feels her pulse throb under Mona’s nails, feels the blood start to work its sticky-sweet way down her cheek. Pretends the throbbing in her cheek isn’t echoed between her legs, that the thought of what she and Mona could do – of what she could do to Mona – doesn’t make her feel more alive than she’s felt in weeks.

She reaches out for the other girl, presses a finger against Mona’s mouth, already thinking through ten different ways to turn this to her advantage. “You don’t have to ask me again, Mona. I’m in.” Spencer meets her eyes with her best look of practised sincerity (the fake emotions are easier to show than the real ones, these days), and feels rather than sees Mona’s smile grow under her finger.

“Good,” Mona whispers, breath warm against Spencer’s hand, and before Spencer can reply she surges forward and her nails are replaced on Spencer’s cheeks by her lips. “We,” she murmurs into Spencer’s skin, punctuating her words with quick flicks of her tongue against the blood painting Spencer’s skin, “are going to be so beautiful.”

 _You’ll be beautiful when you’re dead,_ Spencer vows, hands drifting up to encircle Mona’s throat again. Loosely, right now, but the power she has thrills in her veins and she presses her cheek harder against Mona’s mouth. “I know we will.”

Mona laughs and pulls back, but makes no move to disentangle herself completely from Spencer’s hands. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to come work with me, Spencer,” she smiles. “I always thought you would, I just needed to find the right motivation.”

“Self-worship isn’t a good look on you, Mona. Don’t think I’m here just because of your riveting personality.”

Mona gives a little half shrug. “Well, are you here for _this_?” She kisses Spencer then, and even though some part of her had been expecting it, her lips still part in surprise, and Mona takes full advantage of that. And Spencer – Spencer kisses back, furiously, because Mona tastes like blood and lipstick and it’s arousing in a way Spencer had never expected but now wonders how she had lived without.

Mona tries not to look too flustered when she pulls back, but she’s blinking just a little bit too quickly and her hardened nipples are pressing against the thin fabric of her t-shirt. _I did that_ , Spencer thinks, and she doesn’t even try to stop the smug grin that tugs at the corners of her lips. Mona might have written the rules, but there’s nothing that says Spencer can’t rewrite them now that she’s on this side of the game.

Maybe she doesn’t hate Mona after all. Maybe she _can’t_.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Hating Toby is_ _inevitable._

When Mona tells her he’s alive, Spencer just nods, once. _Of course_. Of course, after everything she’s been through, she would find out that the one thing that had been too much was just another element of the Mona-constructed fever dream she’d been living the past two years. They’re in Mona’s trailer, lit by candles and the blueish glow of the computers. Coffee bubbles on the camp stove, its comforting smell drifting through the cab. There are books scattered across the floor, the beds are unmade (Mona is sprawled across one in leggings and a sweatshirt, chin propped in one gloved hand and a chocolate bar in the other) and it feels impossibly safe, impossibly home-like. Spencer is three minutes away from clawing at the walls to get out, or maybe three minutes away from flopping into the other bed with her history textbook – she bounces back and forth between reluctant companion and submissive partner these days, waiting till she finds the perfect face to put on for Mona, the face that will eventually set her free.

“That’s it?” Mona says, wounded. “Spencer, I tell you your pretty boy is all ready and waiting for you and all I get is a nod? I thought I would get a smile, at least. Maybe a little gratitude.”

“Mona,” Spencer sighs, getting up to pour another mug of coffee. “I’m working with you. I don’t like you, and I don’t owe you anything.”

Mona sits up, now, and Spencer, settling down on her own bed, feels the mood shift. Mona’s angry now. “Wrong. I _made_ you. I took you and I made you better and I pretended not to care that you’re doing this for Toby and not me, but don’t you _dare_ tell me you don’t owe me anything.”

Spencer shivers, although the coffee is burning hot. “Well. Thank you, Mona.” The words taste funny in her mouth, and she tries not to think too hard about how she’s living a life where she has to _thank_ her arch-nemesis for not murdering her ex-boyfriend. “I just . . . I’m just not sure what I’m going to say to him, yet.” It’s not quite a lie – it’s best not to lie too much to Mona – and while she knows she wants to see Toby again she’s not sure if she wants to strangle him for lying or fuck him out of pure relief that he’s still alive. (“Do both,” she imagines Hanna saying, “Just make sure the sex comes first because, ew.” She misses her friends, misses them so much.)

Mona hums, smiles, her anger vanished. “You can practise on me, if you want.” Her smile has an edge that makes Spencer think Mona knows exactly how Spencer has been considering reacting to Toby.

“I could,” Spencer agrees. She takes another sip of coffee and tries very hard to keep her voice casual. “You’re a little short, though.” Ambiguous enough to leave the next move to Mona, clear enough to remain in ultimate control. They’ve been balanced on a razorblade for days, and Spencer still dreams of how it felt when Mona licked blood off her cheek. It’s only a matter of time before she either gives in to or throws out the voice scolding her for being unfaithful to Toby. (In truth: she’s already made the decision, already accepted that she and Toby will never be able to go back to how it was without having Mona in between them. It’s only a matter of what she wants to do about it.)

“So?” Mona has, rather unsurprisingly, worked her way over to Spencer’s bed while she wasn’t paying attention and is now looking expectantly at her. Spencer bites her lip, wondering how far she wants to take this – how far Mona will _let_ her take this. “Spence,” Mona sighs, takes Spencer’s coffee and sets it down on the desk. “I’m trying to help you out here. Like, I, personally, really don’t understand why you want Toby back because, girl, you can do so much better, but you want him, so I -”

The rest of her words are lost as Spencer’s long fingers find purchase in her hair and pull her into a savage kiss. She’s been wanting to do that ever since Mona kissed her in Radley, wanting the power that she has to utterly wrong-foot the other girl. Mona tastes like lipstick and coffee, this time, and Spencer finds herself missing the coppery tang of blood. It should horrify her – so much of what she’s done with Mona over the past few weeks should horrify her – but with Mona’s lips soft beneath hers and Mona’s hands working their way up under her shirt, it’s hard to remember exactly why.

They’re both breathing heavily when they pull back, and Mona’s eyes are glittering, dark with arousal (Spencer’s sure her own eyes mirror Mona’s, feels the knot of lust that’s settled in her belly pull a little tighter as she adds it to their list of similarities). Mona licks her lips, eyes still locked on Spencer’s. “Toby is a very lucky boy,” she smirks.

“Yeah, well.” Spencer traces curlicues on the back of Mona’s neck, shifts to settle herself in the other girl’s lap. “Toby's not here right now.” This time when she kisses her she lets her teeth come out, just a little, biting down on Mona's lower lip hard enough to cause discomfort but not draw blood – not yet. Mona groans, grips the sheet in one tight fist while her other hand comes up to press Spencer's head in closer.

Spencer uses the advantage of having both hands free to push Mona onto her back, smiles when the other girl makes a small noise of disappointment at the loss of contact. “You don't like it down there?” she asks.

“No,” Mona snaps, and Spencer can tell the admission costs her. She twists underneath Spencer, trying to flip them over, but Spencer refuses to be moved.

She leans down, one hand on either side of Mona's head, hair swinging forward to cover both their faces. “Too bad,” she whispers against Mona's lips, before claiming them in another kiss. “You wanted me to practice for Toby, right? Toby has a lot to answer for and is staying right. There.” She punctuates the last two words with small bites against Mona's collarbone.

“Uh-huh,” Mona says as Spencer lifts her head, takes the opportunity to divest Spencer of her shirt. “I like the view better now anyway.”

Spencer slides her hand under Mona's sweatshirt. “How about letting me improve mine? Up,” she urges, lifting Mona just enough to slide the hoodie off. She's not wearing a bra. Spencer wonders why she's surprised, hopes it doesn't show on her face.

When Mona laughs, though, she knows it does. “Oh, come on, like you've never seen breasts before?”

Spencer huffs in annoyance, rolls her hips against Mona's in a vain attempt to relieve some of the throbbing between her legs. “Just trying to decide what to do with these particular ones.”

“Oh, well,” Mona smiles, reaches over to her desk and hands Spencer something small. The cold shocks her so much it takes her a moment to realize that it's a knife. “We can use this.”

“Look, Mona,” Spencer says roughly, fingers skipping over Mona’s collarbones since trying to contain her movements is a lost cause. “I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of in the past few weeks and most of them have been for you. But I’m not adding this to the list. If you want this, really, truly want this, I need you to tell me.” She turns the knife over and over in her hands, marveling at how such a pretty little thing could be so lethal. _Just like Mona,_ the thought rises unbidden in her mind, and she pushes it away to focus on the half-naked girl beneath her.

“Spencerrrrrrr.” She’s trying to be commanding, but Spencer’s name comes out more like a whine than anything else and Spencer bites her lip again because Mona whining is really, really hot. But she has to be sure.

“We both know this isn’t about Toby anymore,” Spencer says, determinedly not looking at Mona’s breasts. “And we both know we need this, in some form or another. So tell me you’re okay with the knifeplay, or we do something else.”

Mona finally stops squirming and looks up at Spencer with more honesty than she ever has before. “Yes. I want it. But nowhere anyone else can see, okay? And my safe word is 'serenity'.” She brings her left hand to cover her eyes, and Spencer nods.

“Okay,” she agrees, setting aside the suspicion that Mona’s done this before in favor of kissing her way down the column of Mona’s throat. “And you – you keep your gloves on, mm?”

Mona gasps as Spencer’s teeth close around her nipple. “Since you ask so nicely,” she says breathlessly, voice tinged with amusement.

Mona is skin and blood under her knife, warm and real and wanting and so far from her treacherous sugar-spun schemes. Mona is copper-sweet under her tongue, leather-gloved fingers inside her and clever tongue on her clit. Mona is –

“ _Mine_ ,” they say at the exact same time, and Spencer had never thought two people could come simultaneously outside of bad porn until now but _oh_.

(Later she will think of Mona snapping, _“You bitches took her from_ me _,”_ and she'll understand: this was never about Alison, never about the humiliation Mona suffered back when she was still Loser Mona. This is about Hanna, about possessiveness and the greedy love that drives you to sacrifice your lover’s friends and make jewelry from their bones. It’s about the lengths you go to to protect and to own, and about erasing the last differences between her and Mona.

Mona was the one who first understood how alike they were, surely Mona knew how Spencer would react. And that means she knows how Spencer loves Toby, better than Toby and maybe even Spencer does. It means this is still part of the game. That giving Toby back is just another test.)

 

_Loving Mona is a revelation._

“Pretending not to love you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Toby confesses to her days later, in the safety of their hotel room. They’re sitting across from each other on the floor, and in between them is the space where they are very deliberately not saying Mona’s name. Spencer is hyper-aware of it, feeling as though if they failed to talk circumspectly enough Mona would appear there, the devil summoned by the invocation of her name. Gone are the days when Spencer would have wanted to have Mona rather than Toby just because she knew how to respond to Mona’s particular brand of betrayal – the double-crosses and games have left her open, untrusting of anyone. But maybe it would be easier if Mona were here. She’s almost more conspicuous in her absence, and Spencer – _misses_ her? There’s no good reason to, not when Toby is here, safe, alive, eyes welling with tears as he apologizes. And _yet_.

She swallows hard. “I know. I had to pretend too, remember? But this is different. When I broke up with you, I hurt _us_. You? You went after my _friends_.” Her voice cracks on the last word. She shuts her eyes and sees their faces: Emily, so disbelieving; Aria, so shocked; Hanna, so angry.

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out to take her hands. “Spencer, I’m so sorry, I would never have let anything really bad happen to them. You have to believe me.”

“No.” Spencer shuts her eyes, unable to see his face until she’s said what she needs to. “Toby, you attacked Hanna with mannequins. You locked me in a sauna and left me to burn to death. I don’t _have_ to believe anything, no matter how much I want to.” And she does want to – wants to believe that both of them can come through Mona’s manipulations if not unchanged, at least without Mona having become a permanent third in their relationship, with some kind of love that would still be recognizable to outsiders. She was, she knows now, far too naive. No one plays with Mona without becoming a player themselves out of necessity.

She opens her eyes to find Toby crying. “Not to die, Spencer, not you, not ever.” And she wants to believe him, wants so much –

“Show me. Prove it.” She gets up, tugs him to his feet before laying him flat on the bed. He's passive under her hands, and Spencer wishes for a brief, terrible second that he was more like Mona, more – more of a _challenge._ That thought is one she can set aside, though, and she abandons it in favor of methodically stripping the boy on the bed, and then herself.

“Spence,” Toby sounds just as in awe as he was the first time they did this. He reaches out, but she grabs his hand, brings it between her legs.

“Not yet. Say sorry.”

“I am sorry,” he says, fingers restless against her. “I'm so sorry, Spencer.”

She shuts her eyes and pretends that she's still a girl who can believe him, still a girl without a part of her heart wishing he was Mona.

This doesn’t mean she stops hating Mona. Quite the contrary, she hates her even more now.

 


End file.
